


Harry Oneshot - Little Beast.

by merhoran



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Love, Oneshot, Poetry, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merhoran/pseuds/merhoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This Harry oneshot is inspired by You and I by Lady Gaga and also by every single poem written by Richard Siken, but especially Little Beast.</p><p>Please read it and tell me what you think!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Oneshot - Little Beast.

We lived in a hole. A fucking hole with rats and cockroaches, with whisky bottles next to vodka ones. All of them empty. Empty because we had no money. We had no money and we had no life.

And I loved him, yeah, I loved the boy, but I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand the dirty, broken love that he gave me. For a while it was enough, though. I had enough with his wasted love and our stupid plans for the future. All of them were a fantasy; young fantasies he liked to tell me to see me smiling, because my smile was the only thing he owned. I was his, and he was mine.

That was everything we had.

Each other.

 

It had been a long since the bloody day I decided to leave him alone in our only one room house flooded by smoke. I left him alone, sitting in the couch where we made love for the first time. We didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t turn to look at me before I closed the door behind me forever.

And it had been a long time since I came around, but I was back in town. I was back in the bar we used to spend the nights in, the bar that made me feel like a whore, sitting in the corner with my high heels on as he sang for a crowd of sluts that wanted him entirely because Harry Styles was cool, he was an underground hero. But he was my underground hero, because

“I love you, baby.”

So I was there again, in the same stool, with the same heels and the same red lipstick, and probably the same tight dress. And I was looking around myself wondering why was I back to hell until I saw him, standing on the stage with a guitar as red as my lips and I couldn’t help a smirk, remembering that guitar perfectly. The memory hit my mind vividly; Harry singing and playing to me and wearing nothing but that red guitar that covered his beautiful cock. The shivers he made me get when he whispered into my ear that he bought that red guitar because,

“Red is the colour of sex. And also the colour of your lips.”

Right then I remembered why was I back. No, we couldn’t pay rent, so no, he couldn’t buy me the house in heaven he promised me, neither the engagement ring I dreamt about, but when I left that damned place I realized it was everything I had. There was something about that place that called my name, something about my cool rock star guy that told me to come back, something about my lipstick all over his face and my cold lonely nights in a motel room.

Something about the way he slammed his body in me and told me to look in the mirror how his muscles worked, his skin barely keeping him inside. My heart stopped at the memory of us together, underdogs, sinners running out of alibis, suicides, slag, weekend warriors and "Look at what we’ve become, babe. Look at the mess we’ve made. I am sorry, love." And it made me love him even more.

I got up and walked slowly to the front row, a few desirable girls looking at me from my head to my feet and probably wondering,

“Who the fuck is this new slut?”

And a few others recognizing me and chuckling to themselves,

“I knew you were coming back, bitch.”

He still had those green eyes made of dreams when he looked at me again after so long, and it felt like our eyes have never met each other. It felt like the story was playing on repeat, like a record aching in your heart, stuck in your mind, and again we weren’t the main characters of our story. But we were the owners of the blood rushing through our bodies and that was enough.

And he jumped off the stage when he played the last chord and his tight lips tasted like sleepless nights mixed with cheap vodka.

“If you drink enough vodka it tastes like love.” He told me once.

It might taste like love, but it is not. Because vodka has a price, probably twelve pound, six if it’s cheap, but love has no price. And his whispers didn’t have it either.

“Are you back?” His husky voice was the same too, a voice that had yelled too much. “Are you staying?”

“I don’t know, Harry.” I replied, and I felt him nod against my neck. “I have no idea.”

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

But damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a beautiful boy with a fast car and a bottle of pills driving directly to nowhere, hoping to find heaven but always finding hell. And he parked his also red car at the edge of a cliff where he liked to take me and tell me to scream out my lungs, to blame the whole world for what it did to a couple of young lovers.

And we sat on the brown grass and fallen leaves, ours legs dangerously hanging from the cliff because we did not fear the death and we had nothing to lose, because

“Tell me we’re dead and I’ll love you even more.”

And we did not talk, we did not look at each other or even touch each other, we felt like that moment was easy to break and we were clumsy. But Harry was an impatient and rough boy and he could not have me sitting next to him after so long and do nothing about it. Harry was an impatient and rough lover.

“I have missed you so much.” He murmured in a desperately yet indifferent tone, something only he could do. “Every night trying to catch the sleep in that bloody bed that doesn’t smell like you anymore. Every night reinventing the shape of your body and trying to remember how many goose bumps I used to make you get with the bare touch of my fingerprints. Every morning waking up and not seeing you next to me and not knowing if I should throw myself from this cliff or make a simple call.” He looked at my already wet eyes and smiled in a way that broke my wasted heart in not thousand of pieces, but millions of it because only Harry Styles can talk poetry. “I really don’t know what to do if you are not next to me. You shouldn’t have left me here… And I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“You didn’t say goodbye, Harry.” I whispered. “I needed to hear you saying goodbye. I needed a last kiss from your lips. Was that too much to ask for? I went crazy, alone at a motel room for months. Mental, even more than when I was living here.”

He smiled in that way again and I noticed that his green eyes were now made of broken dreams, dull pain and wounds trying to heal.

“I am sorry. I am sorry about we lived here and how I ruined everything. I am sorry for hurting you and turning you into a whore in a bar. I didn’t mean to. I never meant to. And I am sorry for breaking all my promises.” He was crying then, staring at his empty hands like he just committed a crime or suicide. “I am sorry that you met me that night and I made you fall in love with me. I was selfish; I only wanted someone to love me and I didn’t care about the consequences. I am sorry for not being the hero you needed, for not being a hero at all.” His tearful eyes rose to look at me and I thought that the stars above us did no competence to him. “But I love you. I love you in a way I don’t understand, in a terrifying way. And if I can’t have you… I rather die.”

I shook my head hysterically at his last three words and threw my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me and forcing him to kiss my lips, somehow trying to make him come back to life, to regret what he said, to make him feel my desperate heart. Right then I felt like I owned my life, like I could do anything because we were the main characters of our story about alcoholic and rough love. I pressed my forehead against his and let tick tears roll down my cheeks, whispering nonsense words.

“Are you staying with me?” He asked me once again, and it sounded like the howl of a hurt wolf.

“No, I am leaving.” I replied determinately and felt his fingers clench around my waist in horror until I said, “But this time I’m not leaving without you.”


End file.
